


Little Otter

by Anonymous



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Beating, Belts, Choking, Class Differences, F/M, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Spanking, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spanking, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A maid temporarily hired at Bly Manor falls foul of devilishly handsome Peter Quint
Relationships: Peter quint/oc
Kudos: 37
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	Little Otter

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished Bly Manor and boy did Peter make me feel things. Fic had to be written!

Bly was a strange house, thought Ottilie, beautiful, but strange. She'd been there only a few days, hired temporarily as a maid while the housekeeper, Hannah Grose, recovered from a severe bout of influenza; this had been quite long enough, however, to pick up on the Manor's odd atmosphere. It felt stagnant and watchful and nostalgic all at once, pressing down on the back of Ottilie's neck like the hand of a stern father and making her itch with discomfort.

This was the first afternoon she'd found herself completely alone. Mrs Grose was resting, the au pair out on some daytrip with the children, the gardener tending some diseased flowerbed, Owen was at home with his dying mother, and Peter Quint- Lord _knew_ where he was. He'd made Ottilie squirm from the moment she'd clapped eyes on him, something dark and toothesome coiling behind his sleek exterior.

"So _you're_ the maid," Quint had drawled, wetting his lips before gripping a cigarette between them. "And a _beauty_ , I might add. Don't make them like you around here. Where are you from, eh?"

Ottilie, sensing the flirtation, had bent over a pile of ironing and respond stiffly, trying not to catch his twinkling eye.

"Yorkshire, sir."

" _Sir_ ," Quint had repeated, and let out a soft, throaty laugh. "I like it. You can call me that more often."

" _Nobody_ calls Quint sir," Flora, the Wingrave daughter, had called out as she passed idly through the room. "It's Quint, Quint, _Quint_ , to rhyme with _flint_. A perfectly splendid name."

"Speaking of names," said Quint, when Flora had left for the garden. "What's _yours_ , pretty maid?"

Occupied with folding a pair of Miles Wingrave's trousers Ottilie had not immediately answered. She saw no reason why she and the family chauffer should be on first name basis, and besides, Ottilie felt suddenly cautious, as if letting her name slip might give up some tiny mite of ownership of herself. 

"Come on, now," Quint urged, flicking open a lighter with long fingers until it burst into flame. "If you don't tell me then I'll only have to _give_ you a name. Something that goes well with _sir_. _Slave_ , perhaps."

He had been teasing, but it raised Ottilie's hackles, all the same.

"My _name_ , Mr Quint," she said, between brisk swipes of the iron. "Is Ottilie Wakefield."

She wouldn't call him 'sir' again, Ottilie vowed; she hadn't liked the glee it stirred in those sharp eyes. 

"Unusual sort of name," Quint had marvelled, drawing on his cigarette. " _Utterly_ bizarre, you might say."

"Proper comedian, aren't you?" muttered Ottilie.

She wasn't usually so cutting with her words, but something about Quint's cool, arrogant sophistication had put her on edge. He made Ottilie think of how it felt to work past a building site and whistled at by every man present, or walking home at night with a stranger advancing quietly behind her. Quint's good looks and gentility through it all offended her, and Ottilie had prayed for someone else to enter the room and snap the brittle tension between them.

She leaned even further over the iron, her dark hair coiling in the steam. 

"And _you're_ quite the mouth, aren't you, Ottilie?" said Quint, his mouth creasing into a smile. "Back in the day they would have solved that with a bridle to hold your tongue, in some places."

"I'm not a horse," said Ottilie.

She'd tried to sound fierce, but her voice wavered. Even at twenty-six years old Ottilie had never _quite_ found her footing when it came to asserting herself, although she had been trying, and the chauffer's threatening, sexual insinuations made her almost giddy with nerves. She knew that most girls would welcome the attention, but she did not; Ottilie had seen Quint kiss the au pair, Rebecca, earlier that day from afar, and Ottilie had no interest in provoking drama even at a temporary position. 

"No, _I_ don't think you're a horse, either," Quint agreed, blowing smoke gently through his nostrils. "But another smaller, _prettier_ animal, maybe."

He'd raked his eye up and down Ottilie's frame, taking in her full breasts, her soft stomach, her round thighs, or as much as he could make of her compact, curvaceous figure under her dress. Although scant flesh had been exposed by the fabric Ottilie wished that she'd put on three more layers against that ravenous stare.

" _Please_ , Mr Quint, I'm busy," said Ottilie, hating how strangled she sounded in her frustration. "I _really_ don't have time to chat."

"Pity," said Quint. "I could watch those pretty lips move all afternoon."

He'd stood up straight, his tall, lean figure looming over hers, and for a moment Ottilie had been sure that he would touch her despite the strong chance of being caught.

"Otter," Quint had said, abruptly. "Little Otter. I think that's what I'll call you."

Then he had gone, leaving a sickening fug of cologne and tobacco smoke behind him. 

Ottilie had seen him a handful of times since then, but he'd never managed to catch her alone, forced to keep his distance for one reason or another. Nor did he appear to be in the house now, although it was large enough that Ottilie supposed that he _could_ be, secreted away in some chamber or other. She decided to behave as if she was alone, whether she truly was or not. It was foolish to let some perverted driver frighten her so badly; it was unlikely that he'd _do_ anything to her, after all. No doubt he was a coward, like most men, all puffed-up chest and talk.

Ottilie set about washing the dishes left over from lunch, humming a lullaby-like song she'd heard someone else sing recently, and couldn't recall the name of. She tried to imagine where she'd go next after this little job had ended, whether she'd find a permanent position or a husband to sweep her off her feet. It was a simple, unambitious dream, but Ottilie was a quiet person and imagined house-wifery suiting her. She'd even planned what colour she'd paint the kitchen, the names of her children, her animals. Perhaps it was all just a year or so away, so close that she could almost touch it with her fingertips.

Shaking soap suds off the backs of her wrists Ottilie began to stack plates in the draining rack beside the sink. That done, she switched the kettle on to make tea, only noticing that there was someone else in the kitchen with her when she turned her head and caught a flash of white in the corner of her eye.

"I'll have a cup, if it's a brew you're making," said Quint, folding himself into one of the chairs around the dining table. "I don't need to pick Becks and the kiddies up for another hour or so. Might as well pass the time somehow."

Squirming with dislike Ottilie considered refusing him, but couldn't muster the words. Instead she kept her back turned to the man and ignored him as best she could, returning to rinse the cutlery still resting at the bottom of the sink. Ottilie could smell the slight whiff of whisky about him, and wondered what was on his mind to press him to drink during the day.

"How've you been finding the job, Otter? You seem to keep those paws of yours busy, that's for sure. Although they're so fine I can think of a hundred other things they could be doing than scrubbing the bathroom after rich people shit in the pot."

Flinching at the coarse language Ottilie forced herself to keep silent, her throat as tight as a clenched fist. She dabbed her hands dry on a teatowel and set about pouring herself a cup from the kettle, tensely aware of Quint's eyes on her.

"There's only _one_ cup there, little Miss Maid-service," the chauffer commented. "Just an observation. _I_ asked for a drop of tea. Hardly a difficult request."

Again Ottilie blanked him, although a tiny voice inside her head screamed at her to obey, obey, _obey_ and avoid that hovering sense of threat that hunkered down on Peter Quint's seat with him. But she refused to yield, sipping from the rim of her teacup with pointed gulps, eyes averted.

For a minute there was only silence, the in-and-out of breath as Quint toked on his cigarette. Then suddenly there was the scream of a chair pushed across the kitchen floor, the weight and strength and _heat_ of a man pressed against Ottilie's back as he bent her over the countertop, one hand on her jaw, the other flicking his lighter towards her open mouth.

"If you scream or try to fight me I'll put this out on your tongue," growled Quint, against Ottilie's ear. "Nobody will believe your word against mine. You're even lower on the rung than _I_ am, a pauper of a Yorkshire lass who mops floors for a pittance. You'll be _laughed_ at. Is that what you _want_?"

Too afraid to reply Ottilie shook her head slightly. Quint relaxed his hold on her chin and pocketed the lighter, although he remained flush against back, his taut body crushing hers. She heard him breathe in smoke and felt it blown into her face, a deliberate insult. 

" _That's_ the ticket. Good girl. Nice and quiet for me."

Quint slid a hand over her hip, lifting the hem of Ottilie's skirt with his fingertips. Goosebumps immediately stood to attention on her skin.

" _Please_ , whatever you're thinking of doing, don't," said Ottilie, in a garbled rush. "I'm sorry that I ignored you, I'm sorry if I was rude-"

"There's no _if_ about it," said Quint, tutting in mock-disappointment. "You _snubbed_ me. Made a _fool_ of me. Where's the respect, eh?"

The roving hand raised Ottilie's dress even higher, until his palm cupped her left buttock in its covering of black lace and clasped it. Ottilie shuddered, imagining the reaction of any of Bly's residents if they wandered in and saw her in such a position. No doubt they'd think her complicit, a weak slut wilting under Quint's charms like a willow. 

"I think you need punishment, my lady," said Quint, thickly. 

He really _had_ been drinking; his breath reeked of it.

"You need to be taught that when the man of the house speaks to you you answer, and answer _politely_. Do you understand me, little Otter?"

"Please, Quint," said Ottilie, squirming beneath him. "Think about what you're doing. What about _Rebecca_?"

Quint's fist wrapped Ottilie's throat and squeezed until only a trapped, squeaking breath emerged. 

"This has _nothing_ to do with Becks. _You're_ nothing. You're just a bit of tuft. Don't think for a moment that this changes how I feel about her, because it does _not_. I'm going to teach you your lesson and then I'm going to throw you away like you deserve."

His free hand thrust between Ottilie's lips and stubbed the cigarette out on her tongue, just as he'd threatened to do with the lighter. It didn't hurt as much as she'd thought it would, but the hiss of it going out and the filthy taste of ash made Ottilie choke in disgust.

When Quint released her neck she coughed and spat onto the sideboard, spitting out the taste and sensation of the chauffer's invading fingers as much as the remnants of cigarette. 

_Do I_ really _deserve this?_ Ottilie wondered, miserably. _What_ else _could I have done to avoid this? Flirted with him? Played to his ego? Why_ should _I?_ Why _should I? Who even_ is _he, a jumped-up taxi driver with barely a penny to his name? A nice suit can't hide what he really is._

"I- I'll _tell_ her," said Ottilie, twisting beneath Quint's pelvis. "I don't care whether she listens to me or not. I'll tell her what you've _done_."

The chauffer laughed softly, and slapped Ottilie's exposed buttock hard enough to make her shriek. 

"As I said, you can _try_ , but who do you think sweet Becks will _trust_? The love of her life or some sneaking cleaner she's known all of five minutes? Imagine the humiliation of being thrown out on your ear, the rumours that'll follow you to your next scrubbing position. How you offered your cunt to a driver and begged him to take you-"

"That's not what happened. It's _you_ , Quint _you_ want _me_ , and I don't know why when you have _her_!"

"That's a very good question, Otter," said Quint. "I _do_ want you. You're nowhere near pretty enough for me to go all this trouble and yet there's _something_. Maybe it's the way you talk. Rough as they come- you'll need to work on that if you ever want to be taken seriously. Or the way you dress- a word of advice, Otter, from one _servant_ to another."

The driver jutted his hips against her, and Ottilie felt Quint's hardness, aroused by their scuffle.

"Dress like a rich woman even if you're spent to the dregs. Put every last pound into your appearance, and people will see the flash of it, not the dirt and the cheap underneath. The upper classes won't fall for the the glamour, of course, but everyone else- you'll have them in the palm of your hand."

There was bitterness in Quint's words, a point worn sharp from years of struggling against his lot. This wasn't about _Ottilie_ at all, she realised, at least, not completely.

"You're drunk," said Ottilie, hoarsely. "You're just drunk and angry. Let me go. We can- we can just _talk_. Just talk about things."

She heard Quint slipping his belt from his trousers and began to shiver, knowing she'd never be able to fight him off, to dissuade him. It made her feel like a pond lily, buffeted by the wind and rain until it sank beneath the surface. 

"Listen to yourself, Otter," said Quint, pulling Ottilie's head back by the hair so that she was forced to look at him. He mocked her accent, making her sound dull and stupid. "' _We cun tuhk_ '"- I've never heard _common_ like it. You English have all the names in the world for a Scotsman, yet when you open your mouth it sounds like you're fucking _barking_."

He dragged Ottilie's underwear down her arse and thighs, kicking at her feet to make her step out of them. Then he leaned back to look at her, clicking his tongue in disappointment. 

"You're not a _patch_ on Rebecca. Now _there_ is a woman. A beauty. I thought you'd have more of a body, the way it looked under that dress."

"Quint-"

"Shhh."

Ottilie gasped as Quint shoved her head down onto the counter and held it there, his hand engulfing her skull in his grip. 

"Don't mention Becks to me again, do you hear me, Otter? You can _never_ understand what we have, that I would do _anything_ for her. _This_ is no betrayal. You'd have to be halfway human for it to count. You'll be gone from here soon anyway, and we can forget each other."

The insults were searingly vicious, making Ottilie flinch in shock, but worse was that when Quint mentioned Miss Jessel the love in his voice was _genuine_ , overwhelmingly so. He was mad for her, that much was clear, yet here he was, his cock pressed solidly against Ottilie, against someone who repulsed him.

She felt as if she was trapped in someone else's dream, a confusing, entangling thing.

"Now, I don't want to hurt you _too_ badly," said Quint, slipping his fingers idly between Ottilie's buttocks and between her labia. "No more than you deserve. I'm going to give you the beating of your life, and if you don't take it the way I want you to I'm going to fuck you as well. After that you will go back to work and you will keep silent. Tell me you understand what I'm telling you, little Otter."

Ottilie shook her head, struggling not to cry. Quint's fingers jerked into her cunt without warning, the pain like a knife-twist inside her. But as he curved and thrust them into her wet heat Ottilie felt a terrible twinge of pleasure, and she knew that she was getting wet around him.

_Damn_ this man and his arrogance, his skill. He was _far_ from the first Ottilie had taken, but her other dalliances had been with stupid boys, _not_ men, and certainly not men like _Quint_. She wished that she could remain as dry as a pinecone, as a September wind, but his wolf's snarl against her neck made her weak.

"Listen to me, Otter," said Quint, and his thumb brushed her clitoris before he pulled away his hand and folded the belt in his fist. "Every time I hit you I want to hear you say 'I'm sorry, sir'. You're going to apologise, and when I'm finished you're going to _thank_ me."

"No!" cried Ottilie.

But she didn't dare fight him, afraid of his wrath, afraid of what might happen if he humiliated her before the other staff the way he'd claimed he would. Ottilie couldn't afford a stain on her record; she hadn't done well in school, and she had no money to fall back on. 

She was trapped, she was _trapped_ , suffocated in the web of this house, of class, of money, of reputation, and the spell of this man and his twisting will.

Ottilie clenched her eyes shut, and she felt Quint lean down to kiss her cheek, the scent of leather, cologne, and alcohol delicious in spite of everything awful about him, what he was doing to her.

"Quint-"

He brought the belt down on her left buttock and Ottilie screamed, her arms scrambling behind her to tear at the man, against the pain. He seized her wrists with his free hand and held them aloft as he snarled at her, his accent thickening with desire.

"You remember what I told you to say, Otter."

"I _won't_! Go fuck yourself, Peter Quint!"

"You'll do it," said Quint, striking her again on the right buttock. "Or I'll tell Rebecca everything. No, one better- the moment she comes back I'll drag you to her and make you confess. Now _choose_."

He slipped a hand over Ottilie's arse, smoothing the stinging heat. Ottilie felt strangled by the ridiculousness of it. She'd never hated another person before, or certainly never to the level that she despised Quint at this moment. 

"I'm- I'm _sorry_ , sir," she choked out, the words like thorns in her throat. 

Quint's hand slipped down between her thighs again, as if as a reward, taunting her with a suggestion of pleasure that could have been. 

"Good girl. Now, _again_."

He hit her so hard with the belt that Ottilie banged her chin on the kitchen counter and bit her own tongue. She let out a whine of agony, the sensation of pains something like being set about with a blowtorch.

"I'm sorry, sir."

" _Louder_."

_Another_ , making Ottilie wrestle against Quint's hold, not sure that she could take another without screaming herself raw and suffering an even worse punishment.

"Say it," said Quint, his hand working inside her again, the invasion a cruel, filthy thing. " _Say_ it, or I'm going to ruin you, pretty housemaid."

"I..."

The belt was already lashing her again, then again, and Ottilie couldn't keep up with the strokes, bucking and jerking with the impact. So far she hadn't screamed, only whimpered and yelped, but Ottilie knew that if this carried on she'd howl and never stop.

Quint stopped abruptly, breathing hard, shaking the belt to the floor with a clatter.

"Can't even take a beating right," he said. "Useless sort of woman."

Ottilie heard the sneer in his voice. She remained where she was, face down on the counter, her sides heaving. She felt numb with shock and adrenaline, and _fear_ , as much of her own cowardice as the man seething beside her. Anyone else would get up and try to run, to fight for their dignity- still Ottilie kept lying there, thinking of her mother's face if she ever knew of this afternoon. 

"Stand up and turn around," said Quint. "Let me see you."

This time Ottilie didn't hesitate to do as she was asked. Clumsily she turned, pulling her dress back down over her knees, over the smarting redness of her buttocks. She looked at the floor, at her sensible black shoes, at Quint's expensive Italian leather.

"Eyes up. I want to see what colour they are."

_God_ , Ottilie wished that she had the stomach to refuse him. But again she obeyed, flicking her eyes up to meet his. The suave beauty of his angular face terrified her. There was absolutely no sign of monstrosity about it, nothing of evil at all. 

"Hazel, are they?" asked Quint.

He caught Ottilie by the chin and peered at her, and her throat tightened with panic.

"Brown, sir," Ottilie managed to squeak.

"Is that so?"

Quint sniffed, seemed to abandon the thought, then said, "Open your mouth, Otter."

Again she did, thinking perhaps he meant to kiss her. Quint leaned in towards her, his breath on her lips, his strubble scuffing her cheek. Then he spat into her mouth and jerked her chin to make her swallow, watching her with a kind of fascination. 

"What do you say, pretty maid?"

"Thank you, sir," said Ottilie, her voice a pained wisp. 

"Good. Maybe you're not such a lost cause after all. Pull your dress back up."

This time Ottilie resisted again, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. She shook her head, and tried to reason with the man one final time. There _had_ to be something human in him, something to _appeal_ to.

" _Please_ , Quint, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I just didn't want to lead you on, I didn't want-"

"Shut up!" 

He was in Ottilie's face, shouting, spittle lashing her forehead. She cowered, expecting him to hit her, to _force_ her the way men always did in the bodice rippers Ottilie's mother used to keep on her bedside table. But the force Quint was using was of _another_ kind, a sneaking, slipping thing that required her word, her _acquiescence_ , even if he squeezed it from her like blood from a stone.

"You're going to pull your dress up," said Quint, softly. "And you will not speak unless I tell you to."

Ottilie stared wildly about the kitchen, as if someone might pop up to help her from under the dining table, or from behind the refrigerator. She could smell herself perspiring, feel the heaviness of tears building behind her eyes. 

" _Your_ choice, Otter, remember? _This_ or your livelihood. I'm not playing fucking games."

"If- if I say no- will you let me go? Because I can't-"

"You want me to play rough, is that it, Otter?"

There was a spark of daring in the man's eye as he said it.

"You want me to be the coarse gentleman's driver, to beat you, pull your hair out, break that precious little nose of yours? That's not my style, but I can manage it, at a push. I'm sure I'll find it in me somewhere."

The growl in his voice sounded like a dog's before it rips a rabbit's throat out. Ottilie closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks, unbidden.

"Enough with the waterworks. You won't twist my arm that way. Now pull up your _dress_." 

"Yes, sir," whispered Ottilie, but as she tugged at the fabric her fingers fumbled and shook and kept slipping down again.

"Fuck it," said Quint, and seizing Ottilie's waist he pulled her up onto the countertop, dragging her dress in the motion. He unbuttoned his trousers, his eyes never leaving Ottilie's own. His mouth was a barbaric twist of smugness and that strange, murky anger, turning his face into a devil's mask as he forced her thighs apart and guided herself between them. Ottilie didn't _dare_ look down, but she felt the size of him, the throbbing heat burning against her, and let out a small sob, biting her lip to suppress anything more.

Before she could utter a word Quint's hand was back about Ottilie's throat and he'd slammed his cock inside her to the hilt, the sudden pain of it pickpocketing her breath from her lungs. He fucked her rough and hard, the practised sophistication of his daily life swallowed by an almost animal dominance of her.

Pulling the neckline of Ottilie's dress down he kissed and bit at her breasts as he fucked her, then darted his head back up to claim her mouth, tasting the tears on her lips. His thrusts were so deep that Ottilie felt that he'd somehow break her, splitting her as a woodsman might a fallen tree. Quint brought his mouth to her ear, nipped the lobe savagely with his teeth, then muttered, still fucking her, "Do you _really_ want to know why I had to have you, little Otter?"

She didn't respond, only coughed out sobs as his length ground within her and his hand on her neck tightened her airway to the point that she saw white stars before her.

"I saw you bent over that ironing like an old maid," said Quint. " _Far_ too beautiful to be put to work like that. Then I _heard_ you, bald Yorkshire, the working class on you like a stink, and you _still_ you were still a haughty cunt. I couldn't stand it."

He kissed her, sucking up a red welt on Ottilie's neck like a vampire's bite.

"You wanted putting in your place," he said. "And I'm putting you there now. You won't speak back to me again."

He bucked his slim hips with a violence Ottilie would never have credited him with, filling her in strokes that draw unwanted pleasure from her in amongst the bruising pain. He knew his women, knew how to make even the most agonising collision of his flesh with hers wring her of ecstasy she didn't ask for. She stared past him, at the ceiling, thinking how _stupid_ she'd been to aggravate him in this world that favoured men. 

It might have been ten minutes, half an hour, Ottilie couldn't say, but the assault seemed to go on and on, the tail of her spine bruised against the countertop, her insides filled so completely his very presence within her made Ottilie feel somehow that he was trying to take her over, to _erase_ her, something more than simply fuck her. 

Then, as Quint met her lips in another ravenous kiss he grunted his release, and Ottilie felt him twitch inside her, felt the sick warmth of his seed. He peeled himself off her body and sat back at the dining table, fumbling for a cigarette, suddenly looking pale and unwell. Ottilie felt him watching her as she slipped down clumsily and rearranged her dress and underwear. His mess immediately soaked her knickers through, and she wanted nothing more than to fly from the room and scrub herself in the nearest bathroom. 

But she remained, afraid to leave the room without Quint's say-so.

"Sit down," he said, nodding at a chair.

Stiff, silent, Ottilie did so. She felt like a walking doll, her limbs wheeling at his command. Quint offered her his cigarette, but she shook her head.

"Take it," said Quint. "Everyone smokes, even prissy little things like you."

Cringing, Ottilie took the cigarette and dragged, hating that his lips had been on it before hers. She handed it back, almost dropping it from her shaking hand.

"How long were you meant to work here for?" asked Quint.

"Another week, sir," said Ottilie.

"You'll stay on. Quit and people will ask questions. I want people to forget that you were ever here at all. And they _will_ , in time. _Everything_ is forgotten under this roof."

"Yes, sir."

_Forgotten_. Ottilie shuddered, feeling somehow a pale impression of herself, like a stain on yellow wallpaper. She stood up, loathing the wet sensation of her underwear against her, the hint of his salty scent in the air. Again she made to leave, and Quint caught at her arm, twisting her around to face him.

" _You_ let me in," he said, his voice suddenly strange, broken, the brash confidence shifting. "You _let_ me inside you."

Ottilie shook her head, not understanding, and yet at the same time knowing exactly what he meant by it, the ghoulish flicker of fear in Quint's eyes. She tugged herself free of him and ran, leaving him to his smoking and solitary brooding and devil's regret. 

How _easy_ it was to be a man, and so difficult a woman. 


End file.
